


With a vengeance

by cuneifire



Series: Of revolts and revolutions [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Blood, Dreams, Gen, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:44:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: England likes the dreams where he kills France. Not the other way around.





	With a vengeance

**Author's Note:**

> takes place sometime during the Napoleonic wars, during napoleon's initial success. maybe 1807. idk.

England stares up, and spits out blood.

France’s booted heel slams down on England’s chest. He can feel it; pressure bubbling up with the blood slickly coating his already red jacket, the whistling in his ears, the thrum of insanity whispering in his mind.

                France smiles at him, blue eyes joyful as he leans downwards on the blade lodged in England’s chest.

“My, my, Angleterre,” He says, cheerful smile and bright seductive expression and pink lips, knife in his hand poised to land just where England’s throat would be. “How you’ve fallen.” He laments, as if this is some sort of personal insult to _him_ of all people, never mind that it’s _England_ who’s being held at knifepoint.

                His smile slips into something slightly more vicious as he digs the blade in further, weigh pressuring down on England’s sternum, blade pressing in the spot between his ribs, crevassing flesh in with.

“You used to say you’d be quite the empire, did you not?” He says, staring down at his gloves, which unlike England’s bloodied hands, are perfectly clean. “I remember it, don’t you?”

 _How could I not, France, I was, I was great, until you-_ he tries to say but chokes on blood, red spitting out of his mouth and almost, almost landing on France’s fucking clean polished leather boot.

                France meets his eyes, and suddenly England can see it.

_England stares across the field, eyes going wide. Blood drips from France’s sword as he smiles, smiles again, that fucking smile._

_England eyes slit with a glare, hand shaking over the glinting hilt of the knife clutched in his hand._

_“I-“ He tries to make out, the old form of his language harsh against his tongue, staring at France from across the field. He’s so pleased with himself; sword loosely fisted in his hand, bright lecherous smile to make up for the darkened gray clouds, rain about to overcast upon them._

_In front of him is the dead king’s head, on a pike._

_The white of his eyes roll up, red veins pulsing and blood coated in stick in sickly red. England doesn’t know where the body went. He shakes harder when he thinks of it._

_England’s bare foot digs into the grass, dew slicking his skin as his sword digs a point in the dirt._

_“Oh Angleterre, it must be nice to watch your own death, mustn’t it?” France says, and he’s exactly like he is now and nothing except everything has changed and England’s toes curl into the grass and suddenly he’s shoving forwards, somehow not slipping and charging towards France with a knife in his hand, until his fingers grasp at France’s lapels and tug him forwards, knife slitting against paled skin._

_And France just stares at him. And then he laughs._

_“What will become of you?” He says, and there, there England can picture it, whenever he closes his eyes, whenever he’s not fighting for his life, it’s perfect, he can_ see _it. “You’re nothing but a conquered territory of mine, you know.” France says, and England has to keep himself from trembling, and not from the cold._

_France laughs at him, and England tastes blood._

_He leans forwards, fisting a hand in the cloth of France’s shirt._

_“I,” He says, and France’s fancy blue clothes are so dissimilar form his torn up rags, and he stumbles over the words because they don’t fit together in the right way and they don’t match the way France is looking at him right now._

_Instead, his blade slides up to touch France’s neck._

_“You-“ he bites out, pressing the dulled blade further to elegantly jeweled skin, “You do not_ control _me.” He says, feeling the metal press through flesh, the soft red warmth of blood spilling out over the blade of the knife, coming to touch the hand clenched around its handle._

_France raises and eyebrow, long hair shifting with his movement; not away from the knife, but towards it, towards England, eyes meeting his with challenge._

_“oh.” He says, half a statement. “But then what is your king dead for?”_

_And England, for that half a second, that split moment that seems to hold nothing more than the weigh of that non-existent rain, just. Stares. At. Him._

_“Maybe now you do.” He says, feeling his fingers loosen around the knife, eyes dropping to the ground._

_“But.” He says, meeting France’s gaze, gold hair and blue eyes and red bloodied lips, “One day, you’ll see.”_

_The blade digs deeper, enough he can see the line of bone that marks France’s collarbone. “One day, I’ll be stronger than you. One day, it’ll be you at my feet,-“ He gasps out as he presses the blade further through France’s neck, watching blood spill out and coat his hand, muscle and throat and tendon flowing red over France’s fancy coat._

_“One day-“ He spits out, shoving his knife in further and feeling it meet bone, the weight of the king’s haunted eyes somehow knifing into his back, shoulder blades stiff and bones aching, France’s blood spilling over his hands, his wrist, his arms, sprayed over his chest and neck and watching, somehow, the light in France’s eyes does not go out, never goes out._

_“One day-“He says, and promises to keep it so- England does not break his promises._

_France’s corpse falls limp in his hands, and England pulls the knife out, tossing it to the ground. He watches the rain begin to fall, pouring over him, mixing with the red of France’s blood that mars his hands._

_He stares, at the white of France’s bone mixing with blood and water, and then buries his head into France’s bloodied chest._

_“One day, - I’ll kill you for real.” He whispers slowly, wondering over the words, tasting blood on his lips that is not his own._

And then England had left, and three days later, France had been back, in his court, in his life, in his _head,_ on his mind.

And he had been smiling.

Blood is too clogged in his throat; he can’t say anything to how France is pressing the sword’s tip to where he feels his heart may be beating.

                He swallows the salty taste in his mouth, spitting out red onto sleek black boot, meeting France’s eyes.

He hands tremble under his weigh as he presses them into the ground, body heaving with exhaustion; he cannot die (not yet) but he can bleed, more blood than any human could ever hope to acquire.

“Fuck.” He says. “You.” And then his wrist snaps forwards and he finally grasps the heel of France’s boot and tugs him forwards, shoves him off balance so France falls, knees cracking against the arid dirt to England’s side.

(France fell. France can _fall.)_

                The sword lodged in his chest loses its weigh, and with shaking hands he pulls it out, tossing it to the side, pushing his hands down against the rough dirt to try and pull his trembling frame upwards.

France meets his gaze, and with half resign, places a hand on his shoulder and pushes him down.

“Angleterre,” He says, words half a sigh. “Do you ever stop fighting?”

“You’re bleeding beyond capacity for survival, your country’s economy is in ruins trying to fight me, and all of Europe is under my control. What purpose does it serve you to continue the battle?” He says, and England simply stares up at him, parted pink lips and confused glittering eyes and England snarls.

“I made a promise, France” he says, resisting a wince as France’s manicured nails dig into his shoulder, past the thin layer of cloth covering his skin.

That particular light in France’s eyes tells England he knows precisely what they are discussing.

                “A promise you could never keep.”

England shakes his head, forcing himself to keep his eyes open, to press the heels of his hand to the ground and push himself upwards.

 “I just haven’t achieved it yet.” He says, bringing up a shaking hand to tug France down towards him, grab his chin and tilt his gaze so he has to meet England’s eyes.

“You never will.” France says, easily, so easily, words crumbling.

                “Don’t doubt me.” He says, and then crushes France’s lips in a kiss, digging his nails into his arch enemy’s back with little bleeding red crescents, wondering if his blood will show on France’s coat like France’s did on his oh so long ago.

They kiss, barely a kiss, barely anything, honestly. And if England pulls away half breathless, it’s because he’s lost too much blood to properly breath. And if France’s hand just lingers on his cheek for the longest of split second, then it’s clearly a figment of his imagination; that’s all it ever is.

What matters is that when France pulls away, England’s blood is on his lips, and England’s hand is curled around the small knife he keeps on the inside of his coat.

                And if England’s other hand is curled softly around France’s neck, that’s just coincidence. Just there to prove a point when he smiles, grasping wiry fingers around the hilt of the knife- barely the length of his pinky finger.

He tries to smirk, but he doesn’t know how it comes out, so instead he just spits out blood and says it.

“Good night.” He says, and plunges the knife into-

.

-And then he wakes up sweating, breath coming down hard in heavy pants, sheet drenched.

                His eyes widen, lips parting as he slowly raises a hand to his chest.

Nothing. He’s fine. He’s fine. It was all just a dream.

                It was all just a dream.

He slips out of bed, feet padding on the floor as he pulls into the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.

His eyes are bloodshot red, dark bags under them. His hands shake as he runs water over them, dousing his face in shivering cold liquid.

                Fuck, he thinks, trying to slow his breathing.

It’s nothing. France- that could not happen. The entire thought of it- preposterous.

France could not beat his navy, no matter the strength of his army. England was invincible on the seas. And- and Europe would not fall to him. Somehow- somehow they would take it back, wrench it out of his stubborn greedy hands and put everything back into its rightful balance.

Easy. Simple. Nothing to it.

Like killing a butterfly, he thought as he stepped out of the bathroom, hands still shaking as he sat down in the bed and stared out the gloriously framed window onto the streets of his city.

                Like trapping it in your hands, wrenching off its wings, pinning it to the wall and throwing away the useless parts. Easier than cooking, even easier than killing humans.

Nothing to it. Things would be fixed- back to normal in no time.

France would not, could not win, no matter what the cost, no matter how much he had to bleed and pay and sacrifice for the name of victory.

He only had one final brief thought before more before standing up.

He must win.

If France bested him, then how would he keep his promise?

**Author's Note:**

> crappy housekeeping notes; this series is basically England & France during the French revolution (of 1789) and subsequent events like the Napoleonic wars and stuff. there's no particular plan so the order may or may not get shoved around if I write some other pieces. just lettin' you know.  
> Other than that, hope you... enjoyed? Idk if this is the type of thing a person should enjoy. Hope you liked it, i guess. Feedback is always appreciated!


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